


Hunger

by thegrimshapeofyoursmile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: DJ Otabek Altin, Drag Queen AU, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Muslim Otabek Altin, New York in the 80s, Slurs, ballroom scene AU, drag queen Vitya, drag queen Yuri, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-06-06 18:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimshapeofyoursmile/pseuds/thegrimshapeofyoursmile
Summary: He wants to feel everything, everything, the good and the bad. There cannot be greatness without sweat and blood and tears. There cannot be something to die for if you never push yourself to the limit and beyond.He wants to shine, and he will.////YoI Ballroom Scene AU with drag queens, djs and life and love in 80's New York.





	1. Yuri

**Author's Note:**

> So while I'm away on vacation in St. Petersburg where I'll hopefully be able to write the last chapter of "Gore and Glory", have the first chapter of something I've been working on for a while now. It's a WIP and I very much hope that people's likes and reviews will animate me to finish it sooner or later.  
> I'm not from New York and I haven't lived through the 80's, but I do try to research as diligently as possible - readers of "Gore and Glory" probably noticed that. If you find something that doesn't add up, please tell me immediately!  
> A huge influence and source was the documentary "Paris is Burning"; if you know it, you might probably notice a few intended parallels. I'll try to give my sources at the beginning of every chapter for those who are interested. For chapter 1, it was mostly Paris is Burning. The poem Viktor and Yuri recite is "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou, one of the most beautiful and powerful poems I have ever read.

**One.**

 

Viktor waltzes into Yuri‘s life as a sparkling mess. He is loud and boisterous and laughs too much, but his eyes are kind when he picks Yuri up from the street corner he is standing at, shivering from cold and trepidation. He does not want to be there. He does not want to be there, but times are hard and grandpa is an old man and pretty boys make good money, or so he has been told.

Viktor takes one look at him and before Yuri can even think,  _ At least he is kind of handsome _ , Viktor tells him his name, takes his hand and drags him along without listening much to his yelled protests.

“Honey, you were ready to get into a stranger‘s car, you can follow me as well,“ he tells him, still not unkindly. His silver hair is long enough that it brushes the lower part of his back while he walks, confidently on red heels and clad in a white fur jacket. There are white flowers in his long braid, almost invisible in his hair; Yuri looks at them as he stumbles after Viktor and feels something in his chest, something hard and aching. 

Viktor drags him into a building that has clearly seen better times yet seems to be at least stable. There is glitter on his lashes that glistens in the neon light of a dozen bulbs like fairy dust. He forces Yuri down onto a red couch in a clearly lived-in room, then leaves only to come back a few minutes later with tea and biscuits. Yuri takes both, if only to make Viktor shut up. He quickly realizes that nothing can make Viktor shut up if he doesn‘t want to be quiet.

“So,“ Viktor says, slumping down next to him and shrugging out of his coat before he lights a cigarette and leans back to watch him through the smoke with the half-lidded eyes of a sleepy tiger. “How old are you anyway, honey?“

“Don‘t fucking call me that, fairy,“ Yuri snaps before he can get a hold of his temper. Shame, hot and rising like bile, immediately warms his cheek and he instinctively curls inward to protect himself, clutching the mug in his hands a little tighter. Viktor does not yell; does not cry, either. He just watches him, half-lidded eyes never taking their intense gaze from his face as he takes a deep drag, then another. Smoke curls lazily around him like a feather boa. Yuri thinks of his red lips and white flowers and glittery lashes and suddenly feels like crying.

“Tell me a name then, little kitten,“ Viktor finally says. The small smile on his lips is so gentle that it stabs Yuri like a knife.

“Yuri,“ he chokes out, “I‘m Yuri.“

Viktor hums and breathes smoke. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Eighteen,” Yuri says defensively. Viktor said the last sentence in Russian, probably just on a hunch, but Yuri answers in the same language, if only to show Viktor that he is neither clever nor special.

(But he is,  _ he is _ . Yuri is blinded by his brightness, brightness like a star’s.)

Viktor lowers his cigarette and raises an eyebrow until Yuri all but growls, “Seventeen, okay? I‘m seventeen.“

The smoke softens Viktor’s sharp features considerably and he languidly curls further into the red couch, towards Yuri. “Seventeen-year-old kittens like you don’t belong on the streets. Certainly not at corners like that.“

“You don’t know anything,” Yuri murmurs, because he doesn’t. Viktor knows nothing of grandpa, who is sick and works too hard to keep them somewhat fed and decently clothed. He knows nothing of the struggle to go to school every morning without knowing if grandpa will be still alive when he comes back. The worry about payment of hospital bills, of electricity and water. He just sits here like an all-knowing peacock and stares at him with that infuriating smile and Yuri bites the inside of his cheek in sudden fury. He has a lot of that, lately. Not much of anything else, but hatred and spite keep him going. 

“So, what now?” Viktor asks casually and interrupts his thoughts. There is a fine layer of steel in his voice this time, even though his expression is still quite pleasant. “You’ll go back? Find some johns? Lose your virginity, cry a bit after the first time, then go back again, get fucked, get home, sleep, get fucked again?” His red smile curls around the end of his cigarette like a sad song. “You’ll dance with the red death faster than you can imagine. You’re too young for that.”

“I’ll be careful,” Yuri snaps. His fingers, still clinging onto his mug, tremble like leaves. Once more, bile threatens to rise in his throat. 

“Oh, you will,” Viktor agrees, “until one day you won’t.” He throws the stub of his cigarette into a cup half-filled with red wine, stands up and stretches. “I’ll help you, little kitten. I think I might have just the right job for you. And it’s not dangerous like that - even if you might have to show a friendly attitude in order to get paid.”

“Why?” Yuri blurts out. He hates himself that moment; hates Viktor, too, Viktor who looks down at him with blue eyes as unreadable as mirrors. “What’d you want for your help?”

Viktor smiles and boops his nose. “Us fairies need to hold together, my dove,” he whispers and laughs when Yuri flushes red with humiliation and shame. “Manus manum lavat. Until then, I’ll be your mother.”

 

**Two.**

 

Lady Vi is well known in New York. She is gorgeous, good and gracious, glittering with wealth and promises. She is a princess, a legend, an undying myth. Her style is unique and risqué, but she can wear anything and still look gorgeous; it’s her flair, her esprit that shines through everything. Nobody knows much about the person behind her, but whenever she climbs the stage, that doesn’t matter in the least. Lady Vi speaks for herself, and loudly so, unreachable and perched high on the podium in the world that shapes around her as she sees fit. 

Yuri watches her, perched on a barrel from which yellow and red paint peels down like remnants of forgotten times. He watches her from there, amidst a cheering crowd that goes wild any time Chris - or rather, Miss Cherrypop in her red wig and sparkling golden lipstick feeling very much at home on the little stage they built in the hall ( _ ballroom _ , Viktor told him, eyes sparkling) - announces another participant of the ball. There are so many people; Yuri’s head is reeling with faces he doesn’t care to remember, faces that blur together in a mass of colorful excitement. There is so much color. The room bursts with it, threatens to spill its light over everything like an excited child. 

Something builds in his chest as he watches Lady Vi walk, something deep and real and longing. He breathes in, shudders, digs his fingernails into the splintering wood of the barrel underneath him. He feels alive.

Lady Vi whirls her dress with unashamed, bright floral pattern and turns around, silvery locks curling around her beautiful face. Eyes so blue it hurts find him; Yuri looks into them and finds himself in their mirror. 

 

**Three.**

 

Viktor shows him how to apply make-up the day Yuri arrives at House Romanov crying, exhausted from school and life in general. Viktor has held his word and found him a job as a waiter in one of Chris’s clubs that is a café during daytime, but Yuri is shitty with customers and they can feel it. 

Viktor does not ask questions. He takes him by his shoulders and leads them into his personal room where he sits him down in front of a mirror illuminated by round light bulbs, the sole source of light in the room. Yuri gets some tissues to dry his eyes and angrily blow his nose, but he still sniffles when he is done crying. Viktor sits down next to him and lights a cigarette, watches him through the smoke.

He smiles when Yuri finally says, almost angrily, “Show me how to do it.”

“Just like moons and like suns, with the certainty of tides,” he murmurs and dabs foundation onto Yuri‘s skin, “just like hopes springing high, still I rise.”

“I know that one,” Yuri whispers while Viktor shows him how to use powder and concealer and finally how to draw a clean, sharp line onto his eyelids before dousing his lashes in black. 

Viktor smiles and looks at him for a long moment, cigarette half-forgotten between his long fingers, lips barren and naked. 

“Don’t we all?” he finally replies and reaches for one of the countless lipsticks lined up underneath the mirror like soldiers. 

Yuri looks at himself when he is done, red lips looking back at him. “I rise,” he whispers and Viktor’s sad, gentle smile meets him in the background, curling around him like smoke. 

 

**Four.**

 

He sits in school and looks out of the window, dreaming of chiffon and black eyeshadow and dance. So much dance, it consumes his soul. He wishes he could take ballet lessons, but he is too old and money is always short anyways. But there is always vogue and he is only at the beginning of discovering its meaning.

One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. He walks through his days hazily and lives for the nights spent at House Romanov. Viktor, as useless and breezy as he is, knows everything about creating the perfect illusion for yourself and for everyone else, and he spends many free hours teaching him, completely unfazed by Yuri’s short temper. 

“Have you met someone?” grandpa asks one evening over two bowls of delicious stew. 

Yuri is tired; he had a hard shift and people are still so very complicated that he cannot wrap his head around them. But he lifts his head to stare at grandpa. “Met?”

“You’re barely home anymore,” grandpa says and if there is any accusation in voice then it’s only from love. “I was wondering if you made some new friends.”

Yuri thinks of the ballroom. Of Viktor, always glistening so much in the lights that you can barely look at him and always so washed out when nobody sees. Of Chris, so startlingly unashamed and sexual when talked to, such a good and patient listener when needed. Of Georgi, always ridiculously dramatic and whiny with his interests all over the place. 

“I guess,” he says and finds himself smiling. 

Grandpa watches him for a while. They are the only ones left of their family; his mother, dead in a ditch somewhere in one of Russia’s gulags. His father, perished in one of the rebellions he never wanted to fight. Aunts and uncles, taken away by the KGB to be never seen again. He wonders where they are and knows they will very likely never see each other again, not even now where cracks are slowly starting to show in the unshakable foundation of the Soviet Union. A blessing and a curse that grandpa had enough good relations to get them out of Russia and into the United States five years ago. A blessing that Yuri’s English holds almost no accent, unlike Viktor’s and grandpa’s who cannot deny their mother language. A curse that he still dreams of it every now and then, of the vast snow fields and the colorful, proud towers of Saint Basil’s Cathedral, reaching into the sky like flames of a bonfire that never extinguishes.

_ You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies, you may trod me in the very dirt but still, like dust, I rise _ , he thinks. Russia didn’t want them and New York doesn’t want him as well, but he is here and he will make his mark on this world, and if he has to carve it in blood and tears.

Whatever he sees, grandpa seems satisfied with it because he smiles warmly. They only ever speak Russian at home and Yuri dreads the way it feels foreign on his tongue sometimes. “It’s good that you found some friends, Yurotchka,” he says. “I was a little worried.”

“No need,” Yuri says. He picks at his plate, thinks of high heels and black dresses and wonders if Viktor sometimes dreams of Russia as well.

 

**Five.**

 

When the lights have faded and the firework has lost its last spark, Yuri walks home alone at night. 

Sometimes, when it’s especially late, Viktor insists on accompanying him or at least sending someone else with him, smiling away Yuri’s complaints that he is not a child anymore and can very well take care of himself. But he knows how he looks and he knows that sometimes it is not enough to be brash and loud, so he usually doesn’t complain very much.

Sometimes it’s Chris who accompanies him, whistling a delightful tune or telling him funny stories about ex-lovers and ex-friends and acquaintances. Occasionally even a story or two about Viktor escapes him, which Yuri tends to find especially entertaining. Chris is the one closest to Viktor, his second-in-command, his closest confidante, even his (ex?) lover; there is probably nobody else who knows Viktor so well. 

With Georgi he talks about jewelry and bold make-up statements; they both have a tendency for dramatic eyes and Georgi tries every brand of black eyeshadow he can get his hands on, which is very useful because he knows the best of them and likes to share his knowledge with Yuri. 

Viktor always talks about everything and everyone, proving a surprisingly keen insight every now and then, but there never is anything about himself or his own feelings. He is always happy, always bright, always smiling, if not out of his own motivation, then with chemical support that he only poorly conceals.

(Yuri has caught him and Chris swallowing pills and dousing them with liquor once or twice. Strangely enough Viktor does not seem to like the fact that he did, even though everyone else - everyone of age at least, and many under age as well - takes something.)

He is like a funhouse, making your head spin and your mind dizzy without giving away anything of substance. Sometimes glittering, dark shards of something surface from the ocean of flightiness, but Viktor always wipes them away in an instant with another dazzling smile.

Yuri sometimes wonders if Viktor really is that empty and airheaded or if he just desperately wishes to be that way.

Yuri doesn’t want to be like him. He wants to take the good part about Viktor’s art and turn them - and himself - into something greater, something that sets the whole city on fire. He wants to burn and burn and burn, never crashing, never falling, never wishing to be empty. He wants to feel everything, everything, the good and the bad. There cannot be greatness without sweat and blood and tears. There cannot be something to die for if you never push yourself to the limit and beyond. 

He wants to shine, and he will.


	2. Otabek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely support, I really appreciate it! There‘s less ballroom scene in this chapter because, well, Beka is not a part of it. Yet.  
> The songs quote in this chapter are:  
> \- Shake Your Body by The Jackson Five  
> \- We Built This City by Starship
> 
> The Roxy and The Church were one of the most famous clubs of 80s New York, at least that‘s what research told me.  
> Warning for slurs in part two.

**One.**

 

The guy catching his arm when Otabek is about to exit the club is gorgeous, which is probably the only thing that lets him pause in his steps because after nine hours of construction work at the docks and another three hours of djing he wants nothing more than go home and sleep. Sweat is clinging onto him like a second skin. His lips are dry and his eyelids are heavy. But the guy is gorgeous and so he stands still, stunned by one of those rare people that always feel like manifested light.

“Honey, you’re gorgeous,” he tells him and smiles. There is an accent in his voice. Slavic, Otabek decides when the guy continues to speak, brushing silvery strands of long hair out of his face with the careless gesture of people used to being beautiful. “I love what you did in there. I couldn‘t still for even a minute!”

“Thank you,” Otabek replies, a little confused. A fan? But no. The guy doesn’t give him that sort of energy. 

“What would you say if I had a gig for you?”

Ah. Otabek folds his arms and slightly inclines his head. “Details?”

The guy smiles and explains them to him surprisingly business-like without any unnecessary bullshit. The Church, one evening, two shifts, free drinks included.

“I don’t drink,” Otabek says.

“Free water, then, and maybe something to eat,” the guy says and laughs. He doesn’t cut around the gage, which turns out to be a little more than fair. In fact, it is pretty nice. “And you can play your own stuff, yeah? I’m sure folks would love it.” He smiles a little more. “I probably should’ve led with that, but - you don’t shy away from queer folks easily, do you?”

Ah. Otabek shakes his head, feeling strangely embarrassed without knowing why. “Haven’t had much contact with your crowd so far, but I don’t mind. So I’m in, if you’ll have me.”

The guy smiles a little warmer, almost softly. “That’s settled then. Oh, and by the way, I’m Viktor. People around here also kow me as Lady Vi.”

 

**Two.**

 

Suddenly everyone and their grandmother seems to have an opinion about what Otabek is doing.

He doesn’t even really know the guy who approaches him; they probably have seen each other once or twice because every DJ in New York knows the others at least by name, but that’s it. 

“Hey,” he says and Otabek looks up from what he is doing to give him a wary look. “Heard you got involved with Nikiforov.”

Otabek doesn’t really know what to do with that, wo he just shrugs and nods. 

“Yeah, so,” the guy says, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He is white and blond and can afford to do music as his main job, which probably explains a lot. “You’re pretty alright for an Arab-”

“I’m from Kazakhstan,” Otabek says.

“Yeah, whatever, it’s all Arabia.” It’s really not, but this is America. “Anyways, just a heads up. Guy you’re dealing with? He’s a faggot. Likes to dress like a girl and prance around.”

Otabek says nothing.

“Heard they even tape back their dick to make it look like a pussy,” the guy says. 

Otabek says nothing. He does, however, silently stare at the guy until he shifts uncomfortably. 

“And anyways, he’s probably got that gay disease everyone’s dying from,” the guy finally says after an uncomfortably long amount of silence. “You got a family, yeah?”

“Yes,” Otabek agrees and straightens to sling his backpack over his shoulder. “And that gig pays quite well. So?” 

“Look,” the guy says, “I’m just giving you a warning here-“

“That’s nice, but I don’t need one,” Otabek interrupts him. Sometimes he is really, really tired of people. “Viktor is a nice person and unlike others I really don’t give a damn what’s between his legs or what he’s wearing.”

“You fucking calling me a faggot, Altin?” The guy is red and clenches his fists, but both of them know that Otabek could bench press him without even breaking a sweat. Otabek stares him in the eyes and slowly rolls the muscles of his neck until the guy deflates.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Go get cozy with those dicksuckers, but don’t say I didn’t want you.”

 

His youngest sister, at least, has a different reaction when Otabek mentions Viktor in passing.

“Do you even know who he  _ is _ ?” she demands to know. She is keeping her voice low; they are doing dishes - Otabek washing, Zasha drying - and mama is already sleeping next door, exhausted from life like always. The walls of their apartment are too thin for much privacy. 

Otabek hesitates a little. “A drag queen?”

“ _ The _ queen,” Zasha says. “He’s danced for years at the Bolshoi theatre. Rising star, until he had to leave due to some scandal or another and went to Paris, from there to New York. A shame, really. I heard he was really, really good.”

Otabek lowers a soapy plate and stares at her. “How do you know that?”

“Sometimes he has tea with Madame Baranovskaya,” Zasha says with a shrug. “One time I stayed there later to get through some figures one more time and then I saw him in her office so I needled her about it.”

“I didn’t know that,” Otabek says, then pauses. “You needled  _ Madame Baranovskaya _ ?“

Zasha gives him a look that is surprisingly flat for her twelve years. “What’s that saying you’re always preaching? Politeness is key. And besides, there’s a lot you don’t know, Beshka.”

 

**Three.**

 

“Beshka.”

His mother’s voice, loud and firm as always, wakes him from his sleep and he blinks before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. It’s dark outside; a glance at the clock tells him that it is half past ten. Initially his plan was to get a little more sleep than usual before an exhausting weekend - two gigs and helping his mother at her hairdresser’s salon -, but it seems that his mother has other plans.

“Dasha is not home yet,” she says. 

Otabek sighs and stretches until he can feel his muscles pop. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.” His mother rubs her eyes. In the dim light filtering from the narrow hallway into the living room where Otabek sleeps on the divan she looks tired and old. “I know that she went out with Mila and that Smith girl, but she didn‘t tell me where. Oh, that girl!“ She throws her arms in the air while Otabek gets up and stretches again. “Everyone tells me, ‘Be glad you‘ve got three girls, girls are so much easier‘! Lies, nothing but lies. You never caused me so much worry, Beshka, never. Well, with that motorcycle of yours maybe.“ She sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of her nose. “On second thought, nevermind. All children cause nothing but worry. Nothing but pain for hours only to push them out and experience more pain while they grow away from you.“

Otabek kisses her cheek and changes into jeans and a clean shirt before slipping into his boots and leather jacket. “I think I know where they went. I‘ll go get her, alright? Please go to sleep, mama, it‘s late.“

“Don‘t take the motorcycle!“ his mother yells after him. He only grunts in response and takes the keys anyway, slipping out of their apartment before she can say anything else. 

The night outside is not cold, but cool enough to wake him up and get his sluggish blood running again. He walks the short distance to his bike and hops on it, fastening the helmet with quick, practiced movements before he kicks up the gear and gets running. Traffic in New York is slow at that hour, which means that he can drive a little faster than usual. Quiet, wet noises whenever a tire rolls over the pavement. Traffic lights blinking drowsily like three-eyed monsters. High heels and flat soles clicking and trampling across the pavement. Laughter of a group of people his age, a little drunk and swaying in a rhythm only they can feel. Otabek thinks of Dasha and sighs inwardly; Dasha never knew how to rebel within the rules. Then again, she probably doesn‘t consider that rebellious behavior in the first place. 

He parks his bike near the Roxy‘s entrance. The club is bursting with life, happy disco music spilling out onto the street; he finds himself humming along as he takes off his helmet and starts looking for his sister. Nice bass line, he thinks. Perhaps he could use that in one of his tracks next time. What’s the name of that song again?  _ I don’t know what’s gonna happen to you, baby, but I do know that I want you.  _ Chances are that she didn‘t manage to wiggle her way inside this time -

“There you are,“ he murmurs. His sister is leaning against the wall, sharing a cigarette with a dark-skinned, long haired girl that he knows is Savannah Smith and Mila with her fiery red hair and studded leather jacket. Dasha sparkles in her high-waisted jeans and pink neon shirt that slips from one of her glittering shoulders. Her dark curls spring freely across her shoulders. Otabek sighs. Then he notes another person next to Mila, a strangely androgynous person with long, golden hair and burning green eyes. The eyes of a soldier, Otabek thinks and almost stumbles over his feet.  _ You‘re the spark that lit the fire inside of me and you do know that I love you.  _ People spill out of the Roxy, laughing and glittering, dance in their stumbling steps. Otabek buries his hands in the pockets of his jacket and curls them into fists.

Dasha groans when she sees him and the girls - all of them? Otabek looks at the fair-haired person and isn‘t really sure - stop talking. Mila cheerily waves at him and Savannah smiles broadly.

“Hi,“ he says in their direction. Then, “Danara.“

“Are you kidding me,“ Dasha says and shakes her head until her hair is falling into her face, even though one of her hands immediately creep up to smooth it backwards. “Did mom send you? That‘s my brother, Otabek,“ she adds in the fair-haired person‘s direction. “Beka, that‘s Yuri. He‘s a friend of Mila.“

“Hi,“ Yuri says. Then, “Nice jacket.“

Otabek feels warmth creep into his cheeks and doesn‘t know why, but his sister grins at him in a way that tells him that she is going to tease him mercilessly later. There is golden eyeshadow on Yuri‘s eyelids and his lips curve up into a sinuous red smile when Otabek looks at him a little too long. “Thank you,“ he says and clears his throat. “Danara, let‘s go.“

“What if I don‘t want to?“

“Danara, please,“ Otabek says in Kazakh and sighs deeply. “I‘m tired. Can we go home?“

Dasha bites her lip. “Ugh, fine. Can I at least finish my smoke first?“ 

Otabek looks at his watch, then at the Roxy, then back at his sister and raises his brows in a silent question that may be a little smug. Even though she does her best to look older, sometimes she can‘t help look like her fifteen years.

Dasha scowls. “Shut up. The bouncer‘s an asshole. Didn‘t let Yuri in as well, even though he‘s almost eighteen.“ Then, with newly sparked excitement as the music spilling out from inside changes, “Gosh, I love that song!“

_ We got too many runaways eating up the night.  _ Great bass line there, too. Contrary to the bouncer Otabek is not an asshole and he loves the music, so he takes Dasha’s cigarette, hangs back and watches her dance with Mila and Savannah, completely lost in her own little world without any care that they are on the open street. He looks at Yuri, who stands next to him and meets his look unflinchingly.

“You dance?“ he asks and Otabek shakes his head. “Shame. You should try it some time. Until then you can watch me.“

And Otabek does, throat tight as he feels strangely alive in a way he only ever does when making music. The boy in front of him moves without shame, alongside the girls and alone. He is like a flame in the night; polished gold underneath running water. He is a demon, waiting for someone he can drown. He is the bass line of a very, very great song.

 

“Is mom very angry?“ Dasha asks him later when she climbs from his bike and hands him back the second helmet.

Otabek shrugs and pointedly looks at her hair. Dasha hesitates before she reaches into the pocket of her jeans and gets out her hijab.

“Help me fix it?“ she asks, her voice strangely timid.

Otabek hums in affirmation, smoothes back her hair and gently fixes her hijab. “Are you ashamed of it?“

“Sometimes,“ she whispers without looking at him. “Sometimes it’s just easier to…“

Their mother would have already started to yell. But their mother wears her hijab proudly and without a second thought every day because she never had to be young and different in a city like New York - and Otabek, well, Otabek does not have to worry about that, so he only hums and gently touches her cheek for a moment in quiet support before he lets them into the building. The elevator is broken as always, so they take the stairs, as quietly as possible under the flickering light bulbs.

“Are you mad at me?“

Otabek looks back at her and shakes his head. “You know I‘m not. You just shouldn‘t worry mama like that.“ 

Dasha nods in response and only speaks up again shortly before they reach their apartment. “Yuri is pretty awesome, right? Good energy.“

“Good energy,“ Otabek confirms. “He often with your crowd?“

“Nope,“ Dasha says. “First time Mila brought him with her. He‘s got another crowd he runs with more often.“

“Oh?“

“Well,“ Dasha says a little hesitantly, “You know. Odd folks.“

Otabek stops in front of their door, key already in the lock, and looks at her.

Dasha makes a vague motion with her hand. When she speaks again, it is in a hushed whisper. “You know, Beka. Like...queer folks. Some of his friends are pretty amazing drag queens. I think he‘s into that, too? But I‘m not sure, I don‘t know him well enough yet to ask.“ She looks at him with dark, pleading eyes. “You won‘t tell mom, right? Or the rest? Are you mad?“

Otabek‘s throat is dry, but he shakes his head. “Still not mad,“ he whispers back as they finally move into the silent and dark hallway. “Go get some sleep. I think we‘re lucky, nobody’s awake anymore. Don‘t wake up Zasha and mama.“

A boy like a bass line. He stares into the darkness above his divan for a long time without finding sleep. When he sleeps, he dreams of a golden-haired dancer with a heartbeat like a drum.

 

**Four.**

 

“You look exhausted,“ Otabek notes the next day as he washes Yuuri Katsuki’s hair. 

Yuuri sighs deeply and takes off his glasses to nervously cradle them in one hand while Otabek lets warm water run over his thick, black hair. “Exhausting week. Training was hard and I can’t seem to catch up with my course work.”

“How is Phichit?”

“Fine.” Yuuri smiles. “Hard-working as ever and soothing for my nerves. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Otabek hums. Small-talk is not something he is good at or enjoys, but thankfully Yuuri doesn’t expect him to make some. He has been a regular customer for a few years now, ever since he came to New York to study, a little lost and a little lonely with nothing more than homesickness and good manners. The homesickness has faded a little over the years; the good manners stayed, just like his quiet demeanor. 

“Just the tips?” he asks and suppresses a yawn.

Yuuri replies, “Please, if it’s -“ and doesn’t come any further because the entrance door of the salon is busted open and Viktor bursts in, a whirlwind of silver and purple and blue. Otabek’s mother looks up from her client in alarm and draws her dark eyebrows together. Yuuri’s mouth falls open. He turns his head so quickly that Otabek only barely managed to pull away the scissors in time.

“Good morning!” Viktor chirps and bows before Mrs. Altina. “Is it possible to get an appointment right away? Oh, hi, Otabek!”

Otabek waves a little at him, then says to his mother in Kazakh, “I’ll be done with Mr. Katsuki soon, I can take over.”

His mother flicks her gaze over to Viktor before she nods at Otabek. In her heavily accented English she tells Viktor to sit down, her son will take care of him in a few minutes. Viktor smiles and thanks her in Russian - the  _ audacity _ of it, Mrs. Altina stares at him while Otabek presses his lips into a tight line, even though it is hard to stay angry; the man is like a soothing blanket and probably thinks he is courteous in that thoughtless manner all people from countries that only ever conquer without ever being conquered themselves bear. 

It is petty.

It is useless in a country like the US, even though singed pride still sings in Otabek’s blood, the blood of his people. Still, Viktor is kind and has never been anything else.

Viktor shrugs off his coat and flings himself into the empty seat next to Yuuri, who he smiles at in a friendly, meaningless way. Yuuri, much to Otabek‘s amazement, flushes bright red and almost grips his glasses too tightly before remembering himself. 

“Ready for tonight, Otabek?“ Viktor asks him and lights a cigarette while he speaks, winking at him when he catches his gaze in the mirror.

“Looking forward to it,“ Otabek responds and is keenly aware of his mother‘s eyes burning holes into his neck. He chooses to ignore it and starts cutting Yuuri‘s tips. “Still expecting quite a crowd?“

“Oh, for sure,“ Viktor laughs, takes a deep drag from his cigarette, slowly exhales smoke and then tells Yuuri, “My God, your hair is gorgeous, darling. I wish I had hair like that.“

For a moment Otabek thinks that Yuuri might squeak or faint or both, but he does neither. “Thank you,“ he whispers instead and then clears his throat. “A family trait, I suppose.“

“You should come too,“ Viktor says. There is something in his eyes as he watches Yuuri from his chair, languid and elegant like a leopard on a tree. Their fingers touch each other for a second when Viktor reaches over and hands Yuuri a ticket out of the folds of his coat. Yuuri grips it, his dark eyes never leaving Viktor‘s face. “Otabek is acting as DJ for me tonight at the Roxy. It‘s going to be fun.“

Yuuri, who as Otabek knows from Phichit has to be dragged out to parties by threatening him with dire consequences, agrees without hesitation by answering, “Sure, why not?“

“How did you even know where our salon ist?“ Otabek asks Viktor after a moment. He has never seen him here before and it is certainly no coincidence that Viktor decided to change his hairdresser now.

“Oh, well, you know,“ Viktor says nonchalantly with a wave of his cigarette. Then he winks again. “A mother always knows where her ducklings are.“

 

**Five.**

 

There is a special thrumming beat that slowly pulses through the crowd that evening. Otabek, hidden by shadows and behind his mixing pult, watches them dance. Many things don’t matter on the dancefloor: everyday worries, personal limitations (well, except maybe of a physical kind), insecurities, fears. There is just this: a special thrumming beat in the darkness, a noise like the growl of a prowling animal. Sweat. Glitter. Too many drinks. Darkness, with thousands of stars in it and colored light that shoots through like laser beams, unyielding and unapologetic. Otabek hums along, unseen and unjudged, a thousand heartbeats in his hands. What they feel is what he makes them feel. What they don’t miss is what he makes them forget. 

And Lady Vi is lovely. Here, in a place where everything is possible, he can see the ballet dancer Zasha mentioned, fluid motions that speak of a lifetime of dancing. She is at the very core of everything, blue eyes blown wide and smile too white, too maniacal. She holds court and everyone bows to her. She delights in it, holds hands and kisses mouths and links arms, a sun in the darkest hour before dawn.

And yet. And yet. Otabek is looking for someone else.

A boy like a heartbeat, he thinks and gives the crowd his own. The people are electrified, ecstatic with what he gives them, all the wishes and cravings and desires that can only exist in darkness.

And underneath him dances Lady Vi, a lonely queen as unreachable as the sun amidst her court until her universe is thoroughly shaken.

He almost loses the rhythm when he sees the figure bursting through the ring of people like it was nothing, wrapping an arm around Lady Vi and causing her to stumble on her heels for a moment. Otabek squints, then laughs to himself when he recognizes Yuuri, clearly too drunk to be held responsible for his actions and quite quickly dry-humping Lady Vi‘s leg. He is yelling something into her ear over the music and whatever it is it makes her eyes wide before she laughs, heartily and honestly and unheard in the beat that shudders like electric breath around her. Otabek watches her wave away a tall blond queen with concerned eyes and rapidly moving, glittering golden lips, watches her wrap her arms around Yuuri‘s neck in a gesture that says,  _ This one is mine _ .

What a strange thing it is, how much a heart can hurt and how fast it can heal. When Otabek finishes his set around 2 am and nods at the dj relieving him, they still haven‘t let go of each other. He watches them, Yuuri‘s face and crooked glasses buried in Lady Vi‘s ample bosom - how does she  _ do  _ that? Is it just paper? -, but his arms confidently, securely wrapped around her waist. And Lady Vi gazes down at him from her towering height with the wondering look of someone who has finally, finally woken up from a neverending dream.

“She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene,“ Otabek hums as he leaves the club to stand outside in front of it and smoke his one cigarette per gig. He looks up to the sky, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and sweat on his skin underneath it, and watches the smoke rise. So many souls in this city, he thinks, and then thinks:  _ I‘ve always hated the city. And yet. And yet. _

When he walks home, hands still buried and half-finished cigarette dangling between his lips, he thinks of the steppe, the sunlight touching miles and miles of untamed nature, not a soul besides himself and the harshly breathing horse underneath him, hooves thrumming against the soil like a wake-up call. It still lives in him, that sound, that feeling. It still rises and swells and pushes against the confines of society. One day he‘ll manifest it into music and do nothing else, no matter the cost. There cannot be something to die for if you never push yourself to the limit and beyond. 

He wants to be heard, and he will be.


	3. Yuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little update on my way to Switzerland for a conference. Thank you all so much for your continued support, it really means a lot to me!!  
> Warning for “Two.“: There is a bit of homophobic behavior with slurs at the beginning, but Yuri and Beka manage.  
> If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on [Ko-Fi](http://ko-fi.com/thegrimshapeofyoursmile)!
> 
> Have fun!!

**One.**  
  


That goddamn pig.

Ever since that guy - according to Chris drunk off his ass, yet somehow very persuasive - showed up and apparently wooed Viktor right off his feet in the middle of the dance floor, Viktor is even more of a mess than usual.

“Can you please just fuck someone to get it out of your system!“ he finally yells after another episode of ‘Yura, I went to the hairdresser to lurk around there in hopes of meeting him again, but he never came, what should I do‘. There is only so much a poor soul can take. 

Viktor stills from where he is gluing fake lashes onto himself. He doesn‘t look up, but he stares at himself in the mirror very intently. “There are people you fuck,“ he then says very slowly and surprisingly soberly. “That‘s nothing special. Your body is nothing more than a shell that operates for you, an easy ticket to contact with others in order to feel less lonely. You seek for something, something meaningful from them. Maybe they seek it too - but everyone is so focused on themselves - you, and every other person - that they cannot truly get out of their skin. Your body experiences, yes. Orgasms are very nice, don‘t get me wrong. But then, every now and then, there are people that push themselves under your skin like a needle and stay there.“ He dabs some powder on his cheeks and sighs deeply. “That is something worthwhile. Whatever makes you feel - whoever makes you feel -  _ more  _ in this godforsaken,  _ rotting  _ world, that‘s something to cling to.“ He smiles, halfway between Viktor and Lady Vi, lines blurred so much that Yuri blinks.

“That‘s bullshit,“ he finally blurts out and Viktor‘s smile widens. “My guess is you‘re just a crazy maniac who‘s decided to be a desperate bitch on top of it.“

“Oh honey, that ain‘t a proper read enough to wound me,“ Viktor says and laughs. “But yes. Maybe that, too. Ah, men.“

“What, discovering religion now that you‘re old?“

Viktor laughs again and braids his hair. “That train‘s departed, I‘m afraid. Although I do love a nice roleplay every now and then…“

“Ew! Gross!“

 

**Two.**

 

So Yuri decides that falling in love is absolutely stupid and happens only to dumb fucks like Viktor, which is of course why it comes to bite him in the ass.

And of course it has to happen due to an event that couldn’t be more cliché if he saw it in a movie.  

Admittedly, it probably wasn’t that smart of a move to wander around alone in a short dress with cheetah print and high heels, but he wanted to see whether the illusion would hold or not. He adores the dress, he adores the shoes and he adores the spiked necklace - and he adores  _ her _ , the girl he sees in the mirror after he’s done applying his makeup, his name (Tigress, Tigress) a perfect, fierce whisper against his skin - and so he had to try. And it worked, perhaps a little too well because when he is found out by the three guys that have been following him for the better part of an hour now, walking behind and catcalling Tigress with increasing boldness, they are not too happy with it.

So the thing is: Yuri is not afraid of getting into a fight. A fair share of those he has already experienced were introduced by him. He knows how to hold himself in a fight, knows how to emerge from it if not victorious, then at least not worse the wear, but usually he’s not in high heels for that. And never has he been looked at with so much hatred and disgust. That is the other side of the medal, he reflects pinned against the wall with one hand around his throat, the one Viktor warned him about.  _ Don’t go out alone so late _ .

Stupid. Stupid. But he wanted to know.

“Hey.”

The one who just hissed “stupid fucking trap” at him turns his head. The hand around Yuri’s throat is loosened and he blinks rapidly - he is  _ not  _ going to cry - before he looks as well. There is a guy - smaller than the three douchebags that are still crowding Yuri, but built like a brick wall - with a Mohawk, the hair on the sides soft and short like spikes from baby hedgehogs. His hands are buried in the pockets of his leather jacket. Dark brows are slightly furrowed over dark eyes, the only motion in his face. 

“Let her go,” he says and Yuri’s stomach turns. 

The guy with his hand around his throat laughs. “That’s not a bitch,” he says, “It’s a fucking fag in a dress.”

“I don’t give a single shit who that is,” the guy replies without missing a single beat. “You let them go. Now.”

There is something about his utterly calm voice that makes the three douchebags uneasy despite their numerous advantage. They look at each other for a moment before one of them pipes up, “Oh yeah? And if we don‘t?“

“If you don‘t,“ the guy in the leather says still utterly calmly, but he widens his stances just so very slightly. Yuri feels something in his throat and chest, a low pulse. A thrum. Excitement. He is ready to fight, just not alone. For a moment their eyes meet and whatever Leather Jacket sees in his, he nods at him almost imperceptibly. “I‘ll have to get nasty.“

“Ooooh,“ one of the guys scoffs. He doesn‘t get any further because Yuri frees himself in a sudden and violent struggle and kicks his heels into his balls until he folds like a Swiss army knife. Douchebag two is handled by Leather Jacket, who brings him down quickly and effectively and douchebag three runs away as soon as he finds himself alone. Breathing hard, skin prickling with adrenaline, Yuri tries to regain his footing and smooths down the dress. He feels silly; anger sparks in a sudden flare because he feels silly. He doesn‘t have to. Society sucks.

“Yeah,“ Leather Jacket says and makes him realize that he probably said the last one aloud. “Is it alright if I accompany you back home?“

Yuri narrows his eyes. “I don‘t need help,“ he says and immediately feels foolish.

Leather Jacket does not call him out. Instead he just shrugs. “Probably not,“ he agrees with a glance at the guy still folded in half and groaning on the floor. “But you‘re a friend of my sister, so it‘s - I-“

“Wait, wait,“ Yuri interrupts him, “Your sister?“

“Oh. You don‘t remember.“ Now it‘s Leather Jacket‘s turn to look embarrassed, which mostly means that he lowers his eyes a little. “You were at the Roxy a few weeks ago, with Dasha, Savannah and Mila - dancing on the streets.“

“Oh.“ Yuri remembers now and feels warmth creep into his cheeks. It‘s that guy. What was his name again? Shit.

“You were beautiful,“ Leather Jacket says without any flourish. He is honest and straightforward and he looks at Yuri the entire time he talks. “So, may I…?“

“Otabek!“ Yuri suddenly yells like the biggest idiot on earth. For a moment it is quiet except for the douchebag‘s groan. “Your name is Otabek, right?“

“Right,“ Otabek agrees. Something in Yuri‘s chest feels funny when his calm, serious face finally splits into a small, warm smile. “I didn‘t think you‘d remember.“

_ Me neither _ , Yuri almost says. Instead he shuffles his feet a little and straightens his shoulders, reminding himself that Tigress is fierce and so is he. “Yeah, well, you can - I need to change. You can walk with me there.“

They do not talk much as Otabek accompanies him to House Romanov - Yuri cannot show at home dressed like that. Grandpa would probably suffer a heart attack and he cannot risk that. In his heels, Yuri is a little taller than Otabek, which is - nice, actually, and Otabek does not seem to be the kind of guy that seems to mind. Then again he is a weird one. Yuri cannot really figure him out yet, but he blinks a little when he finds out that Otabek worked for one of Viktor‘s events a while ago.

“So you‘re a member of his - house?“ Otabek asks. He uses the word like someone unfamiliar with the scene, standing on the edge of the limelight and peering in, so Yuri shrugs and grins sharply to hide his nervousness.

“I guess,“ he says.

“What‘s your drag name, then?“

Yuri hesitates a little, then juts his chin out in defiance. “Tigress. I‘m Tigress.“

To his surprise Otabek smiles again. “Dope,“ he says, and Yuri‘s heart skips a beat for the first time.

 

**Three.**

 

Madness, Yuri thinks, must feel like this:

A shared pulse in the darkness. Eyes meeting and gazes holding each other for long moments, challenging each other, before they slide away. A low, drumming pulse that pushes you closer to the crowd, to all the hearts beating in the glittering red, blue and green light. The floor underneath your feet, no more solid to you than the idea of having a soul. Does anyone know another person, really know it? Does anyone here, in this strange space where all limits seem to smudge like cheap eyeliner in the rain, really know themselves? Is there ever anything other than loneliness interrupted by fleeting moments of understanding possible?

He dances to forget and because he loves it, but his eyes keep returning to the one above the crowd, hiding behind a wall of light and music. They shatter through his hands, Yuri and everyone else in the club, and it is his rhythm that moves them, gently, like a benevolent puppet master. He wishes Otabek would come down and dance with him, but by now, after weeks of solidifying this weird friendship, he knows that he won’t. Beka likes crowds, but only when he can watch from outside. Family gatherings, he told Yuri a few days ago, are always so loud and noisy, but he likes to watch them interact from a quiet place. Yuri wants to push him, right into the middle of the crowd, of the light where he is himself. He wants to grab him and pull and pull until they are together, but he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, because he cannot make Beka unhappy, he wants to see him happy always, and Beka is happiest when he is one step behind the light he creates, guiding everyone into it. 

_ Look at me _ , Yuri thinks and looks up to the DJ pult, motionless for a moment in the crowd that rises and falls around him like the tide.  _ Watch me. This is what I am. This is what I create. I am a flame, and I will not be snuffed out. _

Madness, Yuri thinks, is this:

Life. 

Life, and Beka’s smile that breaks through darkness and light, and Yuri’s endless, endless hunger for both.

 

**Four.**

 

Falling in love is stupid, but he can’t help it.

Beka makes it so very easy for him. Eventually he knows when to push and to yield, how to stand calmly in Yuri’s storm and say,  _ No, not this time _ when it is necessary. Other times he just rolls with it, full of mischief that takes a while to emerge underneath layers of responsibility. Beka is cooler than anyone else; it‘s because he knows who he is and what he wants. He teaches Yuri a lot of things without ever really teaching him: that it is good to be courteous, that there is no weakness in consideration, that one can have fun and still look after oneself and others. His grandpa would probably say that Beka is a good influence, but Yuri shies away from merging the two parts of his life together because...because of what?

He likes him so much that it hurts. He has never liked someone else like this before and he does not know what to do with it, where to go with a heart that always seems close to bursting these days. He wants so desperately to touch and yet shies back, afraid of...of what? His grandpa’s disappointment, maybe. The realization that he really cannot ever be normal again. Clothes he can change as he pleases, even though he cannot imagine losing Tigress again. Touching Otabek however, that decides something final. 

He doesn’t know what to do. It hurts and rattles in his chest, haunts him in his dreams and whispers against his skin like a secret.  _ You like a boy _ , the secret whispers,  _ and it’s the most amazing boy in the world, but there is so much to lose by giving in, so much. _

Yuri doesn’t like losing. He’s always been bad at it.

Somehow Viktor seems to know. Yuri doesn’t know how he does it, but he just knows and winks at him, humming when Yuri stomps his feet and screams at him, tells him that all of this is Viktor’s fault because if he hadn’t picked him up back then, if he hadn’t given him this, a second home and a second nature, he would have never started to fall in love with Otabek, who is so good and kind and hot, who has a family he loves and a religion he honors, and he  _ wouldn’t hurt so much _ -

“I know, kitten, I know,“ Viktor hums and strokes his hair when Yuri sobs out of anger and fear. “I remember how it was to, well, to  _ know _ and be so young. It will get better, eventually, a little at least.“

“How?“ Yuri asks with deep breath and means:  _ How can I stop falling in  love?  _ And means:  _ How can I stop liking this boy so much?  _ And means:  _ How can I keep him, and keep everything else too? _ Because life doesn‘t work that way, it doesn‘t simply give and give without ever taking in return. Life demands sacrifices, always. He has learned that from the start.

“One day,“ Viktor tells him very quietly, like a secret between two breaths, “you will realize that there are people who love you exactly how you are. And you will start to love what you are, too. Maybe it will be a little lonely. Surely it will be hard - life for people like us is always hard. But, Yura-“ and he smiles at that, so wide and bright and blinding, radiating, “-isn‘t it worth it, all of it?“

_ I rise _ , Yuri thinks. Viktor has been on top of the world and fallen, crashed and burned, and he has gotten up again, and again, and again, and now Lady Vi is a vision manifested in flesh, a savior for many, many people.

“I‘m a black ocean, leaping and wide,“ Viktor whispers, his eyes so very blue, “welling and swelling I bear in the tide.“

“I am not a slave,“ Yuri says, means that this is not for him, but his heart sings it until he almost believes it:  _ I rise, I rise, I rise. _

“No, Yura, you are not.“ Viktor smiles and it is so very warm between the mirror‘s light and the row of lipsticks in front of them. “You are free and fierce. You are Tigress, and Tigress is you. Go on and make the most of it. It is futile to fight against your heart, in the end.“

 

**Five.**

 

When he finally gives in, it is laughably easy to tell Otabek, and yet it is an unbelievable clusterfuck at the same time.

Perhaps that is because Otabek has never been the problem here. Yuri is sure of him like he is sure of the ocean and the sky, the moon and the sun. It is everything around them that makes him afraid: Beka‘s family that he hasn‘t met yet, his grandpa, the city, the country, the law. He does not know at which point exactly he thinks,  _ fuck it, we‘ll find a way,  _ but he does and it is like drawing a deep breath after holding it for too long, long enough to make his chest hurt and his head feel as if it could explode every moment.

“So, you‘re not so shitty,“ he blurts out one evening like the idiot he is. He had a plan for this: driving with Otabek on his bike to the edge of the city, finding a spot to look at all the lights there, confessing romantically over a bottle of water because Otabek doesn‘t drink and doesn‘t let Yuri, either. Instead, this. 

Otabek proves once more how cool he is and merely smiles in that way that only slightly lifts the corner of his mouth and mostly sits in his eyes - such expressive eyes if one knew where to look. “Thanks. Same.“

Yuri draws in a deep breath. “I mean, I like you.“

Otabek raises a brow. “Because I‘m not so shitty?“

“Well, I mean - I guess,“ Yuri says, angry at himself and Beka‘s smug face. “What I mean is - I - I like you a lot. Like. In a friend way, but also - not.“

Suddenly, Otabek‘s face is very still and it‘s the scariest thing Yuri has experienced in quite a while. “Not?“

“I…“ Yuri feels his face grow hot and damn it, God damn it, he doesn‘t know if he can do this. But there is no way now than forward, so he steels himself and soldiers on. “I...I have feelings for you. Like. Romantic feelings and shit.“

Otabek is still very quiet, but his gaze searches Yuri’s face. ”Are you serious?”

Yuri does not trust himself to give a verbal answer, so he just nods.

“Me?” Otabek says it like he’s wondering out loud, like he’s disbelieving that it could happen. He is such an idiot sometimes. Yuri feels himself relax, only a fraction. “I…” He looks around him, then back to Yuri with wide, dark eyes. Yuri honestly cannot remember if he has ever seen him so frazzled.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he finally asks in a rather small voice when it becomes apparent that Otabek is rather satisfied with simply staring at him wordlessly. “I mean...you haven’t so far, right? And you know...about Tigress.” What he means is,  _ You didn‘t mind being around me before, please don’t start now.  _ But perhaps it is something else when you yourself are involved - but no, no, Otabek once more proves that he can rely on him.

Otabek nods slowly, then he shakes his head, then he exhales. “No, I don’t mind, it‘s - I have feelings for you as well.”

He says it so easily, like breathing, like the most obvious thing in the world. 

Yuri says, “Cool,” pushes a smile into his own hand and trembles with something that is too big for his body. It can be okay, he thinks. It can be more than okay.

He can’t hide the smile anymore when Beka gently guides his hand away from his face and into his own before he leans in - and oh, kissing Beka is something new and bright, something to warm frozen tendrils that have clutched him for far too long. It’s a fragile thing, tangible only for a moment, but many of these moments together? That can be something powerful. He can only hope.


	4. Otabek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support! This chapter is mostly Otabek telling people how gay he is for Yuri. Some take it well, some...not so much. This just as a small heads-up.
> 
> Enjoy!

**One.**

 

Coming clean with the thing itself is the easiest step, and yet even that one is hard.

He’s been in love with others before, not quite in the same manner and not very often, maybe twice in his life so far, but still it helps him recognize the signs as he falls for Yuri. Yuri makes it very easy to fall for him, even though he might not notice. Otabek does not think that Yuri pays much attention to things like love or crushes; he is so focused on what he does, his education and his preparations for the ballroom, that Otabek is pretty sure there is not much place for anything else.

The crushes he had before were on girls in both cases, and so he has to wonder. Is it because Yuri likes to dress like a woman and shows amazing legs in heels and skirts? Does he look at Yuri and think of him as a girl? But no, he does not think that’s the case. Yuri is Yuri, what he wears are just clothes, and he would look stunning in everything because he simply  _ is _ . Stunning, that is. What he does, what he works so quietly for is a form of art - certainly, also a certain kind of way of life, maybe, but…

But what he likes about Yuri are other things: his boldness, his fierceness, the way he always stands up and gets moving again. Yuri is brash, but only because he has never learned how to properly handle people. Underneath that, there is a sensible heart that listens to and feels more than one could think. He is terrible and stunning, clever and good, and Otabek wants to bask in his light always. He likes him when he practices vogueing, likes him when he sits behind him on the bike, likes him when he laughs and when he frowns, likes him in all the shapes he comes in: Tigress, his grandfather’s pride, a high school boy, a brat, a young talent, Beka’s best friend - and he cannot help but think that there are more shapes to explore together. A boyfriend. A lover. Someone to hold his hand. Someone who knows how it is to be splintered into so many pieces, always leaving one piece behind in another country, indefinitely.

So there’s that, he finally thinks. He is in love with Yuri Plisetsky, no matter how inconvenient that might seem to others, and still he can’t say anything until Yuri once more shows that he is the braver one of them and opens his mouth to tell him that he has feelings and shit.

 

**Two.**

 

He uses Ramadan to reflect on it, to just think.

His family is not overly religious, never has been. Back home - back in Kazakhstan, his parents were even more laid back, his mother only seldomly wearing a hijab, if at all. Now he thinks some parts of Islam matter more to her - not because of a newfound spiritual enlightenment, but because she, too, feels lost here sometimes, cut-off and out of touch. Maybe more so than her children. Contrary to them, she‘s had decades of summers spent in yurts, wandering across the land, and winters settled down amidst her families and friends, her tribe. He is the only one who can at least somewhat relate; the girls were young when they came to America, and they were quick to forget, adapting to the big city in an effortless way that Otabek envies, sometimes. Traditions are what connect them, in his mother‘s mind: the hijab she shares with Dasha - since Zasha is too young yet -, the Ramadan she shares with Otabek, the Friday prayer she shares with them all. Her children might not have a mosque here in Brooklyn that they regularly visit, or visit at all, but she does, and it‘s been an important way to connect, one that inevitably shaped her. Islam, shared Islam, is different in the States, too. 

Still, it‘s hard to shake off nagging thoughts that what he feels is wrong, induced by many off-handed comments about people like him in debates about religion and politics. 

The conclusion he finally comes to is this: the most important thing for a muslim is being a good person. In loving Yuri he does not hurt anyone. It does not do damage to his heart, either: just the opposite, maybe. The way he sees it, it is a blessing given to him by Allah that he has the chance to love Yuri because there is so much, so much to love about him. And it makes him a better person, really. It is as if he has opened his eyes to see the world in new colors, new smells, new shapes. He can live without Yuri in his life easily, but with him everything, including himself, is a little bit better, brighter.

_ Thank you,  _ he finally tells Allah with his forehead softly on the ground like an offering.  _ Thank you.  _ That is enough.

 

**Three.**

 

Coming clean in front of his friends teaches him this: it is a process, a conscious decision he has to make over and over again.

With some of them, he does not have to say anything. They take one look at Yuri in his well-worn biker boots and Otabek‘s leather jacket, at his scowl and the way he always seems to unconsciously lean into Otabek. They take one look at Otabek‘s face and they know.

“He‘s cute, you know,“ Miriam tells him when they are alone one day and smiles kindly. They have known each other ever since Otabek stumbled into the kosher meat shop she and her fiancé - now husband - were running, one of his sisters clinging to one of his hands each and himself lost in a city that felt foreign, cold, still does sometimes. Miriam is a little older than him, but not enough that it matters much. “I won‘t tell anyone.“

“He likes to wear dresses, sometimes,“ Otabek says and does not know why it matters that she knows. 

Miriam does not bat an eyelash. “Yeah? Then I hope he‘s got smoother legs than you, Mami. You‘d look terrible in tights.“

They grin at each other for a moment before Miriam‘s face softens. “Bring him over for lunch sometime. Maybe not in a dress, we need to get Michael used to that first. My dear husband is a good man, but sometimes a little old-fashioned. But.“ She touches his cheek. “If he makes you happy, he belongs to us now.“

 

Chico says about the same a day later as they share one cigarette - Otabek‘s guilty pleasure he indulges in every now and then. Chico is street-hardened and too smart to easily trust. They bonded over homesickness and family responsibilities and by now Chico‘s dark eyes are kind when he looks at Otabek and watches him watch Yuri a little ahead of them, hurling stones into Hudson river. “So. You two fucked yet?“

Otabek does not choke on the smoke, but it is a close thing. “Why, you jealous?“

Chico chortles and rubs his shaved head. “Your boy‘s pretty, but I think I‘ll stay with girls. Sorry, Beka, this ass will never be yours.“

Otabek hands him back the cigarette. His fingers tremble only a little. “So. You don‘t mind?“

Chico snorts. “What the hell man, I‘m not an asshole.“ Otabek lifts a brow and they jostle each other for a moment before Chico rubs the shaved side of Beka‘s head a little too roughly. “It‘s your business. I like that he‘s kinda an asshole, too, you know.“

“I can imagine,“ Otabek says with a small quirk of his lips.

Chico flicks the cigarette stub at his head. “Fuck you. If he makes you happy, he‘s in the club, even though he‘s too damn pretty to match our ugly mugs.“

“You‘re gonna like the way he beats up people with a high heel,“ Otabek says and grins when Yuri quizzically whips his head around at Chico‘s loud, crowing laughter of delight.

 

And some other times, he just...doesn‘t say anything, and that is fine, too.

“You really should get a girl sometime, Altin,“ Pete tells him through one of their lunch breaks. They sit perched up high on a half-finished wall at the construction site and New York is spread out beneath them like a glittering carpet full of promises. Beautiful, Otabek thinks while the sun beats down on them and lets the sweat run down his neck into his white muscle shirt; beautiful like the shards of a broken mirror embedded in water. Somewhere down there is Yuri, maybe brushing his hair or dancing, or working until his fingers bleed.

“Hm,“ he says. He likes Pete; they work well together and Pete is respectful. They get each other‘s humor and Pete knows when to leave him alone, but also how to share silence, sometimes. But Pete is a product of the Big Apple, born and raised here. He has never been somewhere else. His entire family and friends are here, his wife, all of his roots.

Pete looks at him with smiling eyes. He always has everything but pork in his sandwiches these days in order to share with Otabek, and Otabek finds it touching enough that he doesn‘t have the heart to tell him that the Altins don‘t really take it that serious when it comes to food and drinks, mostly. He knows that his mother knows that Dasha regularly drinks and when she yells at her it‘s because she doesn‘t want anybody to take advantage of her drunk teenage daughter, not because she broke some religious rule. “Come on. You‘re working too hard between here and all those gigs. Would be nice to blow off some steam every now and then, right? It doesn‘t have to be serious, y‘know. Or even sexual. Dates can be fun, too.“

He likes Pete, but Pete can‘t possibly understand, even though he might do his best to try. So Otabek just smiles, keeps the image of Yuri with his fierce scowl and soft smile close to his heart in silence and only says, “Perhaps.“

 

**Four.**

 

Your people are everything. They are your responsibility and your backbone, your safety and your home. It does not matter if you agree with them: they deserve your respect, and your deserve theirs. There can only be an I within the We. It is something Otabek has learned when he was very young, from the horses that live in him - and from the people that were his family, as well as the ones that still are. Respect for him means that he is true to himself and honest towards them. 

But he is so, so scared. It would be easier if it was only sex he was after, but this is his heart on the line, and these are his people. There seem to be no words that are adequate enough, or maybe he is just too clumsy for them, just like always. He just doesn‘t know how - how - 

 

“In your head again,“ Dasha tells him and takes him by his wrist. “Come on, let‘s go.“

“Where to?“ he asks, despite himself.

Dasha‘s smile is sharp and glittering. “Anywhere.“

They exit into a lovely Friday evening, their mother‘s kiss lingering on their cheeks and Zasha‘s dark, solemn eyes following them out of the door. Dasha takes off the hijab as soon as they are down the street and runs a hand through her dark curls, carefully folding the piece of cloth and putting it into her purse. She wears black-and-white-striped pants, a white top that reveals a strip of smooth stomach and neon-yellow nail polish that matches the clunky necklace around her throat. It is almost tame for her taste, but like that she matches well with Otabek‘s leather jacket and dark jeans. They link arms and just walk for a while. It‘s been quite a while since they went out together; Otabek is always so stretched thin these days. 

Now, though, he is reminded of how different Dasha is when compared to him. She has always been loud and boisterous; in that way she reminds him for Yuri. Dasha flings himself into the world with lightning speed, embracing people with her whole heart. Otabek lives on many places: high above the city, hidden in the shadows of a club, warm and constant in their home, curled in Yuri‘s arms. It is his way of dealing with the voice inside him that whispers,  _ Move. Move on, move forward, move.  _

But his sister lives out there on the streets, adapts so very easily, hums with New York‘s pulse. She speaks Kazakh with Otabek, then yells something in English across the street and waves her arms at people that are only faces to him, but people to her, people with lives and stories. She is kissed on the cheek and talks part English, bits of Italian, flings around Irish and Scottish slang and changes effortlessly into Russian. Otabek thinks of New York stretched out beneath him, a carpet of broken shards of mirror. Perhaps he has been too harsh. 

They share a cigarette at one corner of the street, chatting with three black teenagers that affectionately pull on Dasha‘s locks and bump fists with Otabek. They all look a little in love with Dasha and he watches them, bemused, as they try to make her laugh. 

There is a spring in Dasha‘s steps when they move on and Otabek buys them two cans of soda at a store he has never been at. They flit in and out of stores to try jackets, pants, shirt, shoes, jewelry and hats. Dasha buys him a pair of black, fingerless gloves with her pocket money and smiles when he immediately puts them on. In return, she proudly wears the pair of feathery earrings he buys for her, even though it does not really match her outfit. They talk about everything and nothing; Otabek is content to let his sister do the talking and Dasha is gracious enough to allow him to simply listen. 

He thinks of a song for her when they meet a few of her friends, Savannah and Mila among them, and get pulled into breakdancing in the middle of the street. Especially Mila ist ferocious, dancing with muscles stretched taut and firm over her stomach and arms, sweat glinting on her brow, her hair a streak of fire. It is easy to stay in motion, with Dasha. They dance on the street, and they dance in front of a club with light and music spilling outside because if Otabek doesn‘t smuggle his boyfriend - boyfriend! - into a club, he certainly won‘t smuggle in his sister. 

He feels lighter, after that. It feels easier to pull Dasha in, both of them sweaty and flushed with laughter, and push their foreheads together and say, in the space of love between them, “I‘m in love with Yuri.“

Dasha is silent for a moment before she throws her arms around his neck and pulls him close until his forehead rests on her shoulder. For a while he listens to her rapid heartbeat, still fired up from dancing so much, and closes his eyes. “Is he in love with you, too?“

“Yes,“ Otabek says.

Dasha runs her fingertips along the short hair in the nape of his neck. “I think you two are cute together. You know I don‘t mind, right? Some of my friends are not straight either.“ She hesitates, then she adds fiercely, “You‘re my  _ brother _ .“

“I was afraid,“ Otabek admits, throat tight.

“I‘ll beat up everyone who hurts you,“ Dasha says. “And I won‘t tell mama until you‘re ready. I promise.“ 

 

It‘s a little different with Zasha. Of all the people in his family - the one that remains -, Zasha is the one most similar to himself, and that is not always a good thing. They expect each other to understand implicitly a little too often, too much. It is good when it comes to music, this glorious instrument where you have to click on a common ground that has nothing to do with verbal communication. It’s not so good when it comes to things you actually have to say out loud. And Zasha doesn’t even know Yuri; she hasn’t met him so far, which kind of makes it even more difficult to explain.  _ He is my sun _ , he wants to tell her, but can’t say it like that, not really.

He tries anyway, one day when he accompanies her to her choir lessons. It is a nice day, the sun hanging low on the horizon. Zasha is visibly tired after hours of school and doing her homework, but she has her arm linked with his and does not complain at all.

”Zasha,” Otabek says. His sister looks up at him and attentively raises a brow. Whatever she sees in Otabek’s expression, it causes her to stop and really look at him. She does that sometimes: looks at people and things as if she can see their very core, as if nothing else matters. It is why he trusts her judgement of others very much.

“There is a boy,” he says and swallows around the dryness in his mouth.

“Yuri,” Zasha says matter-of-factly. When Otabek stares at her, she grins and gives him a half-shrug. “You’ve hung out a lot with him during the last few weeks. So, am I right?”

“Yeah.” Zasha waits very patiently, although her dark eyes are never leaving his face. Otabek breathes out. “I like him a lot.”

She studies his face for a long moment. “Why are you afraid, then?“

He breathes in, throat stung with the sharp accuracy of the way she sees right into his core. “It‘s not...sometimes it‘s not good, liking someone else a lot.“

Zasha scrunches up her nose a bit. “Who says that?“

He breathes out. “People. There are rules, you know, rules nobody teaches you and rules you might not like, but it could end up with you or the other person getting hurt quite badly or killed, or...“

“I know,“ she says very softly and slips her hand in his, warm and soft and strong where her bones are, the same bones he is made of. He wonders what she really knows of it; his sisters, sharing the same space with him so often, move in the shadows of his memory when he is apart from them, just like the rest. Just like Yuri, who he only really knows when they are together. The city swallows the rest of them all, of himself. It‘s not always a bad thing, growing into different directions, only it makes life so difficult sometimes.

Zasha lets her eyes wander around them before her eyes snap back to him. “Do you know why I like the city so much?“ He cocks his head a little in silent inquiry and she smiles, wicked and delighted like a cat that figured out a new trick. “If the people you run with don‘t click with you anymore, you can find new ones. It‘s not always a matter of life and death, right?“

_ But it hurts,  _ he wants to say. “Perhaps,“ he says instead and finds comfort in her hand, strong flesh and bone against his own for the rest of their way.

 

**Five.**

 

For a long while he considers not telling his mother anything. It would be easy enough, he supposes; she almost never leaves the house except for the same routines every week, rarely ever meeting new people. But it makes him uneasy, restless. And of course, he hasn‘t taken into account that she knows him like she knows the back of her own hand, and that she might simply take the first step.

Which is exactly what she does when he helps her clean the dishes and they stand together in their tiny kitchen, the girls bend over homework in their equally tiny room. He doesn‘t expect a thing when she suddenly turns towards him, levels her frank, warm stare at him and asks all no-nonsense, “What is wrong?“

He almost drops the towel and focuses his gaze on the plate between his hands. “Nothing is wrong.“

His mother clucks her tongue at him and takes the plate from his hands, which leaves him defenseless. “Please. Do you think your mother is a fool? You’ve moved like a caged tiger the last days. Something worries you.“

There is a small part of him that wants to deny or find a white lie to tell her; stress, tiredness, work. Anything, anything else besides the point, but that‘s not how they‘ve worked so far and he is loathe to change into something he is not. And yet, he can feel himself tremble like a leaf, causing his mother to put the plate away and her hand on his arm.

“Beshka,“ she says softly, “whatever it is, we can fix it.“

And that‘s just it, isn‘t it; it‘s nothing that can be fixed, nothing he would  _ want  _ to be fixed, even if there was a way. But it‘s so, so hard. He breathes in, still trembling, until his lungs ache, then he bows his head before her. 

“No, mama,“ he says very softly, a little proud that his voice is quiet but steady. “I didn‘t know how to tell you. I wanted to, but…“

“But?“ He knows that his mother is anxiously staring at him now, but can‘t bring himself to look into her face.

“I was afraid,“ he finally admits, the words leaving him like a breath. “I am still afraid.“

When his mother speaks again, her words are barely more like a whisper as well. “I have always been good to you. Why are you afraid?“

“Because you‘ll be angry and worried, and sad. It‘s nothing you can fix, or that I want you to fix.“ This time there is no question, but he can hear it clearly anyway. So he draws in a deep breath and says, “I‘m in love with a boy.“

“Oh, Allah,“ his mother says and takes her hand away. When he looks up, he can see her turned towards the tiny window kitchen in a sort of helpless gesture, her hands pressed against her chest. There is nothing he can do except stand in front of her, waiting. When she finally turns back her eyes are glimmering. “You are sure about this?“

He nods wordlessly. What is there to say?

His mother starts to slowly finger the hem of her hijab. There is something about her that looks as if she is barely holding back and he appreciates her restraint, then her eyes snap back to him. “There is more, isn‘t there?“

He swallows. This will be harder, he knows, probably harder on her than the fact that Yuri is a boy. “He is Russian.“

At that, his mother slaps him.

It is not entirely unexpected and yet it feels like a lifetime away for the first moment, the sting in his cheek barely registering. His mother has not held back this time and something in him wakes up and roars.

“A Russian!“ she yells, full volume now. In the room next door, the girls have gone entirely quiet. “They took my home, my land, my parents and my husband, now they are taking my only son too? And he  _ lets _ himself get taken, the fool, probably in more ways than one!“

His cheeks burn with a humiliation that is worse than a slap and perhaps that is what causes him to roar back, “You don‘t even know him! He had to flee as well - there are more people that suffer apart from us!“

Her mother is taken aback for a moment, probably realising that she has overstepped an important boundary the moment he has raised his voice. Still, there is something wild in her as well, a caged animal that causes her to move on. “If you were tricked into this, you are a fool, and if you went along willingly, it‘s even worse! They sent your father to prison-“

“They  _ shot _ his mother!“

“I don‘t care for his mother, I care for my son!“ she yells and breaks into tears, turning her head to cover her face from his furious gaze. “Men like that, they are sick, all of them - they die like flies around here-“

“You don‘t even know ‘men like that‘, apart from me,“ he snaps, but there is less venom in it this time because there is still and always will be something highly unsettling about seeing his mother cry. Still, he makes no move to console and she holds her back straight and proud while sobbing uncontrollably.

“It‘s all over the news!“ she bellows, furiously wiping her tears from her cheeks, “And you will be the next one - the first child I have to bury in this land, the first child I have to sacrifice to this blasted country, as if I haven‘t sacrificed enough already-“

He blinks, caught between anger and slow understanding. “Mama-“

“Out,“ she says suddenly and with a note of steel in her wavering voice, “I will not witness your slow death. I‘m too tired - I can‘t do this. Get out.“

When he does nothing but stare at her for a few long moments, she yells again, voice cracking, “Get  _ out _ !“

_ Fine _ , he thinks, suddenly and furiously. He turns on his heels without another word and goes for the trunk he stores his belongings in, throwing some of his clothes in a bag without really realizing what he is doing. Behind him he can start to hear Dasha shout, but it barely registers. Leather jacket. Boots. Keys. His set of apartment keys gets left behind. 

He slings the bag across his shoulder and is out of the door before the sight of his sisters, blurred through a veil of tears he is choking on, can make him reconsider. 


	5. INTERLUDE: Viktor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me ages. AGES, and I'm still not sure that I've found the right tone or conveyed what I wanted to convey, but it doesn't get much better than that, so have at it.

**One.**   
  


Viktor Nikiforov knows sacrifice.

Many people are inclined that he does not know much of anything and instead simply waltzes through life, one of the naturally charming and beautiful people that only meet open doors wherever they go. They usually don‘t realize what it takes to get there. There is no such thing as naturally charming and beautiful. Many, many things he had to give up on in order to become what he is, and therefore he knows the agonizing feeling of  _ knowing  _ impending loss. He is only a little above thirty, but he already feels tired.  
“Do you remember,” Chris asks him as they are waiting in the sterile anteroom of his doctor, their fingers tightly interlaced despite the faxes of other patients, “when we were young?”  
His usually so smoky voice has veered into hoarseness. Viktor smiles for them both, because that’s what he can do best, and leans his head against his shoulder.  
„I remember Paris,“ he murmurs in French, „the lights above the Seine. Too much champagne, every day. Gorgeous, gorgeous dresses.”  
He looks at Christophe and silently tells him what else he remembers: Chris, so young and doe-eyed, burning kisses, secrets spilled in the dark like jewels, the parties, the dancing, the endless, endless hunger that seemed so harmless by then, merely ambitious, certainly nothing that could kill them.  
Christophe smiles, faint and beautiful. There was a time where Viktor thought that he could love him like he deserves, not only as his closest friend and dear part of his heart, but as everything else as well. Sometimes he still wishes it were so, but there is no point in forcing the heart. It’s a lesson they both have learned.  
“I wish we could go back,” Chris says.  
“To Paris?”  
“Yes,” Chris says, and doesn’t say, __ to everything else. To when we still had a chance.  
Viktor presses his hand into Chris’ and closes his eyes.  _ I know _ , he wants to say.  __ I know.   
He says nothing instead.  


 

*

 

Viktor is clean. Chris is not, and that, Viktor thinks, is a perfect example of life’s injustice. 

 

**Two. **

 

Yuri is in hysterics and Viktor is too old to deal with panicking teenagers. Why he bothers anyway is beyond him, but he sighs and sits down with Yuri who watches him with wide, green eyes, hiding behind his anger to make others believe that he is not scared shitless.  
Viktor looks right through him. Sometimes he wishes he didn‘t.  
Instead of fucking off and doing something that might be more fun, he lights a cigarette and leans back on his couch, looking at Yuri from underneath long, black lashes. He should have let Lady Vi handle this, all of it, but now it‘s too late; Yuri caught him naked, mere seconds away from throwing in a happy pill to make it all better.  
“Listen to me,“ Viktor therefore says with a smile and tries to be a decent fucking adult who has his shit together by not offering Yuri one of his pills, “he‘ll be fine. You think he‘s the first gay getting thrown out by his family? Please. And it‘s not your fault as well, if that‘s what you think,“ he adds when Yuri opens his mouth, “You can‘t help that you like him and he can‘t help that he likes you. Nobody‘s at fault here. Life is just funny sometimes, and sometimes it‘s brutal.“ He takes a deep drag from his cigarette.  
“I don‘t give a shit,“ Yuri hisses and crosses his arms. There are red blotches on his cheeks that are highly unflattering for him. “Can you take him in?“  
Viktor blinks. “Excuse me?“  
“I don‘t want him on the streets and his friends can only take him in for a few days at best! I want him to be able to leave his shit somewhere! And you know that he likes me, so we wouldn‘t have to lie when we - well. When we see each other.“  
“I won‘t let you fuck in my apartment,“ Viktor says. He burns his fingers on the tip of his cigarette and swears; clumsy, he thinks and stares at them, corners of his eyes stinging with the pain.  
Yuri reddens so suddenly and violently that Viktor blinks. “Go fuck yourself,“ he hisses, “he just needs a place to _sleep_ , God damn it, and I can‘t take him with me because of Grandpa.“  
“You haven‘t fucked yet,“ Viktor realizes and Yuri goes red enough that Viktor thinks for a moment he might implode. Perhaps the boy is still a virgin, which would explain a lot. “Good. You need to be careful. I know you love that boy, but...just get tested before you do anything, and get him tested as well.“  
Yuri stares at him, deflated and more confused than embarrassed. Viktor dresses himself in smoke and closes his eyes, unable to look at him. Lady Vi could have done it, he thinks, but Viktor Nikiforov is just a man and nobody must find out how weak he is. “What?“  
“Just promise me,“ Viktor says, “and I‘ll take him in.“  
Yuri blinks. “That‘s all?“  
Viktor wants to cry - because of Yuri‘s youth, because of himself, because of Chris and because of bleeding hearts, because of a life that makes being them so miserable, a life that hardly ever is fair. Instead he reaches for the pill and swallows it dry, throws his head back and laughs as loudly as he can. “Yeah. That‘s all.“

 

**Three.**

 

Chris wastes away. Viktor’s heart pulses low with the knowledge that there is no cure. There is no cure, and Chris wastes away, and Chris is still so beautiful, and Yuuri is still so much larger than life. Viktor doesn’t know where he fits into that, but he has always been in the narrow space between life and death. He should be comfortable here, like that, but instead it feels like suffocating. He has never been good with grief and it chokes him, even though Chris is still alive, but for how much longer, and Viktor isn’t ready to bury him, and he isn’t ready to kiss Yuuri to feel alive-

He takes the boy in, Yura’s boy who looks so serious, and yet his eyes are full of fire. They are smoldering things, those eyes, fire of the most dangerous sort: the sort you think has turned into ashes long ago, but when you touch it you burn yourself beyond recognization. He gives him a key to his flat and lets him sleep on the couch because there have been times where he has needed a stranger’s kindness as well, and in their world it’s the only thing he can do to contribute his part. He wishes he could do more, but his hands are tied and his mouth burns from cigarette ash and his blood drums with drugs, glittery dust that keeps him going.  
He wants to accompany Chris to the doctors, but Chris has a boyfriend and Chris is not alone, and Chris is strong. He smiles and places his hands on Viktor’s shoulders in comfort and Viktor wants to slap him because he is terrified, that wild, caged thing inside his chest that makes him so great is terrified and lashes out. Chris knows and Chris handles it, and at some point Chris will not be there anymore to handle it, and Viktor will be alone, alone, alone. There are not many people ready to reach into the bursting, constantly crashing comet that is Viktor Nikiforov, and what he has with Yuuri is still so fragile, so tender and easily broken. 

Viktor takes the boy in, the boy with eyes like dormant fire.  
Sometimes they sit together in the darkness of night, both unable to sleep for different reasons, and Otabek tells him of the times where he used to run with horses. Viktor listens, curled into a tight ball that is constantly aching, and when daylight rises he watches Otabek pray and wishes he could do it, too. 

**Four.**

Yuuri gives him the ability to breathe underwater.  
Viktor gives him everything in return: he teaches him how to paint his gorgeous face, teaches him how to walk in heels, teaches him how to rise like a white swan and how to rise like a black swan. He cannot teach him self-confidence and he wishes he could do more, more, more when he sees the way Yuuri bites his nails and curls into himself whenever he thinks he is not enough. How he can think that he is not enough is beyond Viktor’s comprehension; he looks at Yuuri and he sees everything that mankind could be. Yuuri could be everything, Yuuri could conquer the world, Yuuri has a kind, gentle soul and a spine made of steel that he seems to forget about under the harshness of the world. Viktor pours himself into him, wishes he could do more, give more, but the last step has to be taken by Yuuri and Yuuri alone.  
Viktor wishes he could make it better; but he can’t. He has been through it all before Yuuri, the weltschmerz, the heartbreak over the realization that for some people he will always be less, no matter how fiercely he shines. Lady Vi gazes at him through the looking glass and he feels like Alice, doesn’t know anymore that he should stand tall and feels small instead. Chris is all hollow cheeks and hollow smiles and hollow pain and hollow eyes, and Viktor is not ready not ready not ready. 

Death does not care if he is ready, but death is also patient. He doesn’t take Chris away, not yet, but he gently strokes his temples and smiles at Viktor through the smoke of his blunt. 

Death is beautiful, and Viktor is terrified of the realization. He turns away and buries his head against Yuuri’s shoulder, the only solid thing in the entire world, no matter how fragile the thing between them is. Viktor thinks that perhaps he could ask Yuuri to stay with him; perhaps Yuuri would say yes. It is frightening, and Viktor can’t remember the last time life has been so frightening for him. There is a lot of things he has forgotten over the years, lost in a cloud of haze and emptiness, but Chris and Yuuri remind him and it hurts. 

**Five.**

Most of all he has forgotten how to cry, but he remembers now, oh, he remembers. And while he remembers, Yuuri makes him start to dance again, the way he has danced before back in Russia, with ice in his veins and all the poetic tragedy that he carries in his heart forever, forever grieving for Russia and a part that has been stolen for him in order to obtain another part. He cannot have everything, it is a lesson learned well. Viktor knows sacrifice; he just sometimes wishes knowledge would be enough to make it easier, but it never is. He just sometimes wishes he could protect others from knowing sacrifice as well, but he never can. Maybe that is what breaks him, in the end, gently and with terrifying force.  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://thegrimshapeofyoursmile.tumblr.com)!


End file.
